


Slow and Low

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, BDSM, Christmas, Domesticity, F/F, F/M, Holidays, Molrene, Multi, Polyamory, Sherlolly - Freeform, Threesome, molrenelock, polyamory triad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4345772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Domestic vignettes on a holiday theme. Commission from faerymorstan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow and Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faerymorstan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/gifts).



**Christmas Eve**

221b Baker Street can look quite festive during the holidays, with its Victorian clutter and cozy fireplace, provided one ignores the oddities lying about making it look more like something out of Poe than Dickens.

This particular Christmas Eve is not festive, despite the fairy lights or the greenery or the line of Christmas cards crowded on the mantle.  Molly sits by the fire, feeding it random bits of paper, a ritual she’s used to calm herself since she was young.  She imagines her problems igniting then flying up the chimney and out into the night.

Her grievances are often small in the grand scheme of things:  an annoying coworker, a bad haircut, Sherlock being a prick about laundry, Irene traveling all the time.  But tonight, burning an entire phone book one listing at a time wouldn’t get rid of the ache in her chest and gut.

A case had ended this afternoon. The outcome was not what they had hoped and worked for.  Child deaths are always devastating, but those two little frozen bodies, huddled together for warmth, had nearly sent her into the other room in tears.  That hadn’t happened to her since she was fresh out of school.

 Sherlock hadn’t slept in days and he’d looked on in quiet rage as she’d prepared to do the autopsy.  John’s anger, as always, was more vocal.  But it was Greg who gave Molly pause. When he excused himself, she sent John and Sherlock after him. 

“Don’t leave him alone.”  When Sherlock protested she gave him a firm push toward the door.  “We’ve got the killer. It’s out of your hands now.  Go help your friend. Get him drunk. Play board games with him.  Knock him out and make him sleep. I don’t care.  Just don’t leave him alone.”

She hasn’t heard from Sherlock since he’d kissed her on the forehead and left with John.  She’d picked at a ghastly roast dinner in the canteen before giving up and coming home.  Mrs. Hudson had coaxed her into baking some cookies.  They sit on the worktop in a zipper bag, which Toby paws at occasionally with a mournful cry. 

Molly takes the last of the receipts from her wallet and holds it to the fire. It goes up quickly.

“One of these days you’re going to burn the place down.  Mummy will be quite cross.  She’s entrusted me with a lot of her antiques.”

He’s standing in the doorway, removing gloves, coat, scarf, like always.  He shakes the snow from his hair and slides his shoes off.  He doesn’t chide her for being lost in her thoughts and not hearing him enter.  He does that quite often, even though he’s the last one who should talk about getting lost in one’s thoughts to the exclusion of all stimuli. 

But that’s an argument they won’t be having tonight.  He goes to the bedroom and emerges in his dressing gown and pajamas, grabbing a cookie as he walks past and devouring it in two bites.  It’s the first thing she’s seen him eat for three days.  He settles beside her, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees. 

“He’s alright.  But you were right, he shouldn’t be alone.”

“Did you make John stay with him?  He’s got to play Santa in the morning, Sherlock.”

“Of course not.  Mycroft showed up.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes,” he says, giving her the look that John and she both hate.  The one where they’re supposed to be on the same page but more often than not they’re not even reading a book in the same language. 

“I’m not following, Sherlock.

“Apparently he comes over quite often. He had a key.”

“Oh.  OH!” After thinking on it for a moment she shrugs.  “It makes sense, though.  In an odd way.”

“Well I’m glad it makes sense to someone because I’m deleting it immediately and I’d rather you never mention it in my presence again.  You can gossip with John all you want about it.  I’m sure he texted Mary before the door had shut behind us.”

“And I’m sure Mary already knew.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes.  “Possibly.”

They sit in silence, staring at the fire.  Molly is nodding off and contemplating whether it might just be easier to sleep here when Sherlock speaks.

“You miss her, don’t you?” 

Irene is in Caracas, gathering intel for Sherlock for an unrelated case. She was supposed to return three days ago but had hit a major break.

“Of course I do.  Don’t you?”

“I’m…better at sorting these things.”

She stretches her toes toward the fire.  “Hmmm.  I’d say that the very fact you have to compartmentalize it means you miss her dreadfully.”

“You’re right. She’s much better at taking care of you after these things than I am.”

Molly laughs and lands a punch on his arm. “Taking care of _me_?”

“Okay.  Taking care of _us_.”  Molly raises her arm again. “Okay. Me.  Taking care of _me_.  Satisfied?”

He relaxes into Molly as she loops an arm through his and leans into him.  “It’s not even dinner time there yet.  We can call her.  Should call her. “

Sherlock nods, but before he can get his phone from his pocket it rings.

“ _Raven hair and ruby lips. Sparks fly from her fingertips_ …” 

 Molly giggles.  He always feigns annoyance at the ringtone Molly chose for Irene, yet he hasn’t changed it.  He hands the phone to Molly and gets up to make tea. 

“Darling, I’ve just heard,” Irene says.  “I’m on my way to the airport right now.  I’ll be home in time for Christmas crackers.”

“We haven’t really got anything in. It’s been crazy the last few days.”

“Don’t worry.  I’ve got it all under control.”

 

* * *

 

**Valentine’s Day**

They have dinner at Angelo’s.  Sherlock won’t dream of anywhere else. He hasn’t shown up yet, though, and Molly is doing her best to persuade Irene to give up and go to the Thai place up the street. It’s not that she doesn’t love the food here, she’s just really craving Pad Thai.

“Unless he’s finished the case he’ll only pick at his food anyway,” she says.

“We can’t leave now; we’ve already been seated.”

Molly slides her shoe off and traces a toe up Irene’s shin.  “So we’ll have a glass of wine and if he hasn’t shown up we’ll leave.”

Irene doesn’t look up from the wine menu. “Oh, you’re calling the shots tonight?”

And just like that, Molly is wet, in a thigh clenching, quick gasp of air kind of way. 

“Oh,” she  manages. 

Irene smiles. 

Sherlock is coming down the stairs at 221b as the ladies enter.  They stop him, turn him around--a press gang in stockings and skirts--bundle him back into the flat, down the hall into his room and have him stripped and sat in a chair facing the bed before he can utter a single excuse.  Molly has the presence of mind to put the takeaway in the refrigerator.

“Oh good girl,” Irene says as she selects rope from the bureau.  “Mr. Holmes, tell our Darling how thoughtful she is for making sure our food will still be nice when we’re ready for it.”

“Well done,” Sherlock says, voice pitched low. 

Molly buzzes with pleasure.  “I got you some of those spring rolls,” she whispers.

Irene’s voice rings out, stern but not loud.  “That’s enough, you two. Darling, on the bed. As for you, Mr. Holmes, since you weren’t at all keen on spending time with us this evening, you can stay right there.”

He stays, and he watches as Molly is bound by Irene in the exquisitely soft rope he spent so long researching before buying last week.  He’d been so shy when he’d shown it to her, telling her that the he thought the deep forest green would suit her skin tone.  She makes eye contact with him as Irene checks the knots, then catches Irene’s eye and she feels so warm and safe and there is nowhere she’d rather be.

Irene works her into an absolute frenzied mess, nearly sobbing with need before she is allowed her release.  When the shudders subside, Irene unties her and rubs her wrists and ankles before showering her with kisses.  With a word, she summons Sherlock to the bed, and they surround her, holding her and caressing her and telling her how splendid she is. How perfect.  How incredible.

In a hazy bliss, Molly sips her water, leaning back on her pillows and watching as Sherlock works Irene’s beautiful body, his fingers gently parting her, his mouth grazing her skin.  This is the thing that no one else knows: how delicate they are with Irene.  How fine she is. How she can push Molly and Sherlock to their breaking points but succumbs utterly to the slightest caress to the back of her knees.

She clasps Molly’s hand as she comes, shivering under Sherlock’s tongue.  

Sherlock, so contrite, kisses Irene and then Molly.  He gets two warm, wet flannels and cleans the ladies up before going into the kitchen to retrieve their takeaway, erection still raging. 

He kneels on the floor and Molly feeds him a spring roll and tells him how lovely the ropes felt. How perfect it was. How safe she felt.  Two bright spots blaze red on his cheeks.  She teases him with the last bite before popping it into her mouth.

“Here,” she says, patting the bed between Irene and her.  “If Miss Adler agrees, I’d say you’ve earned our forgiveness.”

They both look at Irene, who is delicately licking sweet chili sauce off her finger.

“I suppose,” she says.  “But he has to do the washing up first.”

* * *

 

**Fourth of July**

It can’t really be possible for the human body to withstand this kind of heat, can it? All of these people, walking around laughing while eating fried things on sticks, they’re just fever dreams. The creation of a brain destroyed by heat stroke.

Molly stops under the shade provided by a shop’s awning. “Christ, if I live through this and make it home I’m never complaining when it’s 30 again.”

Irene takes her hand but Molly can only tolerate the contact for a few minutes.  They walk by a fried butter stand and she nearly wretches.

Noticing her face, Irene laughs.  “I wouldn’t turn my nose up if I were you, considering you’ve never said no to a fried Mars bar.”

“How can they eat anything when it’s this hot?”

“They’re used to it.  And every one of them would think the end of the world was coming if it snowed on Christmas.”

“Oh, Christmas,” Molly sighs.  She tugs at Irene’s sleeve, guiding her toward a snow cone stand. The queue is at least twenty deep but she’d wait twice as long for the human head sized flavored ice concoctions dripping down people’s hands.

“For the first time since we arrived I’m grateful that everything is big in Texas.”

They end up sharing a mango and chili snow cone, and Molly’s delirium subsides a bit.  On a corner toward the end of the street fair, she spots a two screen cinema. 

“You reckon it’s air conditioned?”

“Isn’t everything around here?”

Yes, it is.  And she doesn’t even care about the shock to her system every time she enters and exits a building.  She wants to sit in the cold, clammy darkness with her girlfriend and share some popcorn to replace all the salt she’s lost sweating.  Maybe one of those giant pickles, too.

Because of the holiday, their choice of film is either _Born on the Fourth of July_ or _Saving Private Ryan_.  They choose vintage Tom Cruise.

They’re the only ones in the theater.  Even Tom Cruise and air conditioning can’t lure the locals away from the culinary wonderland of the street fair.  Molly briefly imagines Sherlock attempting to eat a fried Oreo cookie and smiles. He’s out there somewhere, in a summer weight suit, trying to track down the person who’s been threatening this small city’s mayor for the past six weeks.  She settles against Irene, leaning her head on her shoulder now that she’s cooled down, breathing in her sweat and perfume and warm hair. Some other time, she’d be tempted to inch her hand up Irene’s thigh and under her skirt, but not today.  She leaves her hand on her girlfriend’s knee and drifts.

 

* * *

 

**Bonfire Night**

They are supposed to go to a fundraiser at Charlotte Watson’s play school, but Molly comes home to find Irene curled up on the sofa sleeping, a pile of used tissues and several cups of tea on the floor beside her.  She’s covered in both a blanket and Sherlock’s coat, and the man himself sits in his chair, which he’d turned to face the sofa, contemplating Irene as though she were a bird cage or a Yorkie or some other incongruous object that had been dumped in his flat. Toby bolts from his position on Irene’s hip and begins circling Molly’s feet, mewling for food.

“So it wasn’t allergies, then?”  Molly says as she hangs up her scarf and jacket. 

“Hmm?”

“She was sniffling a bit this morning and she swore it was just allergies.  But she doesn’t really have any autumn allergies and all of your mold spores are at the lab. I had a feeling she was coming down with something.”

“But she’s never sick.”

Molly looks up as she’s pouring food into Toby’s bowl.  He’s still staring at Irene with his brows knit together.

“Well, sure, she doesn’t get sick very often but surely this isn’t the first time you’ve witnessed it.  She had food poisoning two months ago. Oh, wait. That’s when you were in Mozambique. It’s the whole reason we tried that new place.” 

She gives Toby a good pet and he makes the funny meowing-while-eating sound, then she goes and lays a hand on Irene’s forehead.  It’s cool if a bit clammy.  Irene murmurs and rolls over, tucking herself deeper into the back of the sofa.

“You have been helping her, right?  You didn’t just sit there and stare at her until she fell asleep?”

“Of course I helped her,” he says, sitting up straight and gesturing to the array of tea cups on the floor.  “I even went to the shops and fetched some nasty smelling herbal vapor rub and helped her apply it to her chest.”

“Oh such a chore.”

“You think I derived sexual pleasure from rubbing lavender eucalyptus beeswax gunk on my girlfriend’s chest while she sat glassy eyed and wheezing with a red nose?”

“I would have,” Molly says, coming to sit across his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck. “She’s still got nice tits.”

“You’re right, I did. But don’t tell her.  I’d never hear the end of it. I think she was delirious enough that she didn’t notice how long it took.”

They sit in silence until Irene begins snoring slightly and Molly can’t contain her laughter.

“What?”

“Did you ever imagine anything like this the first time you met her?”

“I couldn’t imagine much of anything the first time I met her.”

“Me neither, to be honest.”  After a minute or two more of listening to Irene snore, Molly sits up and looks at Sherlock. 

“I can look after her so you don’t have to miss the carnival.  I’ll make her some soup when she wakes up and we’ll watch a movie.”

“Oh I already begged off.  Don’t want to expose the dear children to any nasty germs I might be carrying.”

“Oh thank God,” Molly says, tucking her head back under his chin. “I love Charlotte; I really do, but all those children and noise. And I’m sure there would have been a clown or two.  I’ll write a check to the school on Monday?”

“Already taken care of. I texted Anthea.”

“You’re efficient today.”

“I have my moments. “

* * *

 

**New Year’s Eve**

Irene breezes in at six o’clock bringing armloads of carrier bags and the smell of snow. 

“It’s a nightmare out there.  It took ages to get a cab.  And before you say it, I almost broke down and took the Tube but it’s already closed.”

Molly looks out the window. The snow is swirling fast but the ground is barely covered. 

“I was in New York once for a conference, in February,” she says.  “It took a blizzard to shut down the subway.  Something like eighteen inches in 8 hours.  I was stuck there for two extra days but it was nice. I love hotels.  And Times Square is like another planet when it’s empty and full of snow.” 

“Yes, I remember.”

Molly turns and smiles.  “I forget sometimes.  You’re so English.”

“A veritable rose.  Though I’ve still got that New Jersey tucked away somewhere, if you ever want to hear it.”

“Be still my heart. Will you do that thing with your hair like in Working Girl?”

“Tess McGill was from Staten Island!” Irene says. 

Molly kisses her indignant mouth.  “Isn’t that in New Jersey?”

“Staten Island is a small island southwest of Brooklyn, which is actually part of Long Island,” Sherlock says, emerging from his bedroom.  “New Jersey is to the west.”  He gives them each a quick kiss before sprawling across his chair and picking up his violin.  He begins idly playing “Auld Lang Syne” as the women turn back to the window.

“You’d think the two of you had never seen snow before.”

“I just enjoy the quiet,” Molly says, voice hushed. “It’s hardly ever this quiet, even in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock switches to Vivaldi, drawing the notes out and pausing frequently as he works something out in his head. 

“Shall we try making it to the Watson’s party or have you already sent our regrets?”

“No need, they’ve already canceled, like the ostensibly sensible people they are.”

“Good,” Molly says.  “If we cancel on them too many more times they’ll stop inviting us at all.”

“I thought that was the plan.”

“Sherlock,” Irene says. “Behave.”

“Make me.”

“Later.  Right now I’m starving and we’ve not got much in.  I doubt anyone is delivering.”

“Speedy’s.”

“They’re closed today and tomorrow.”

“And he was stupid enough to not change the locks after Mrs. Hudson dumped him, and I happen to have made a copy of the key he gave her. “

Molly looks at Irene.  Irene looks at Molly.  Molly shrugs one shoulder and Irene sighs. 

“All right.” 

The shop smells delicious even when shut down, and Molly is immediately smacked with a craving for a bacon sandwich.  Mr. Chatterjee makes them the same way her nan used to, toasting the bread on the griddle with the bacon drippings.  Sherlock rummages through the cupboards and the walk in refrigerator, grabbing ingredients for all of their favorites.  They’re in luck; since the proprietor’s holiday is short, there are still some fresh ingredients on hand.

Sherlock nibbles on a chocolate biscuit while he prepares Molly’s bacon alongside eggs and potatoes for Irene.  He’s ridiculously good at cooking, despite what people expect.  He once claimed it was due to having worked as a short order cook for a case, but Mrs. Holmes had revealed the very ordinary truth.  He had loved helping her out as a boy, and cooking and baking were a good way to teach him chemistry and physics.

They eat mostly in silence, Sherlock sticking to sweets and Molly and Irene stealing nibbles of each other’s food.  Their contentment carries them through clean up, and Sherlock leaves a fifty pound note on the till before they slip back out the back door. 

Molly smiles to herself as they pile on the sofa together. She leans against Sherlock, head on his chest, while Irene lies with her head in Molly’s lap.  “What’s so amusing?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s just funny, how people have these ideas about people like us. How it’s all wild orgies all the time, but we’re really just a bunch of boring old farts.  I don’t even know if I’ll make it to midnight, and Irene is fading fast.”

“Am not,” Irene murmurs.  “I am fading at an epically glacial pace.  I fully intend to drink that champagne. It was the last bottle of that vintage and I had to fight an OAP for it.”

“Why not drink it now?” Sherlock says.

“It’s only 7:45!”

“Which means it’s 12:15 in Kabul and we’re late ringing in the New Year so we’d better hop to it.”

“I’m not moving,” Irene says.

“I cooked supper.”

Molly sighs.  “All right.”  She extracts herself from between her loves and goes to the kitchen.  When she comes back with the bottle and glasses (jam jars, actually) Irene has moved just enough that her head is now resting on Sherlock’s knee. His head rests on the back of the sofa, one hand laid lightly on Irene’s shoulder, caressing her neck with his thumb.  A lump rises in Molly’s throat.  They are just so beautiful and they are _hers._   

“I can feel you getting sentimental, Molly,” Sherlock says, eyes still closed.

“Sorry—“

“No, it’s okay.  I’m used to it now and it’s…not…too bad.”  He opens his arm to her and she comes to sit on the sofa arm.  Irene sits up when handed her glass. 

“To midnight in Kabul,” she says.

“To another year together,” Molly chimes in.

“To Madam Curie” Sherlock says. The ladies look at him.

“What?”  He says, all innocence.  “Oh, we’re supposed to toast to something pertaining to this very second?”

“It would be nice, but we know what you mean.”

Molly clinks her glass with Sherlock’s.  “To Madame Curie.”

“To us.”


End file.
